Sunday, September 18, 2011

The other day I was standing in the aisle o' razors at the store that I hate more than I hate lima beans.

In some twisted logic which can only be born of minimum wage, passive aggression and paternalistic logic, all of the Blades for the non-disposable razors had been taken away from the aisle. All that was left were disposable razors.

I stood. Befuddled and increasingly riled.

Finally, in my exasperation, I blurted out:

"Where the fuck are all the razor blades?  Is this some conspiracy to deny the non-disposable razor users? Fuck me!"

Emily, who is (sadly) accustomed to these types of outbursts merely smiled to herself and resumed looking at things on shelves.

A not-unattractive gentleman of approximately my age began to laugh. I looked over at him, unaccustomed to others finding my lack of social graces to be amusing.

He smiles at me.  I now have an audience.

I smile back, and begin to gesture to the shelves -now barren of real blades.

"Where have they gone? This makes no sense!", I finally end.

He makes some small talk and explains that he has seen them towards the front of the store, near the registers. Ok. I acknowledge. That is an incredibly asinine place to locate razor blades, but I will go look there.

Emily trails behind me.

"That dude was totally crushing on you, Mom."

I stop short. "what!?"

I am shocked, people. SHOCKED.

"It was a conversation about razor blades....", I say.

"Oh no, he liked you.", explains my daughter.

"Emily", I say. "I look ridiculous.  Comic book tshirt - jean shorts three sizes too big, toenails that really need a new pedicure and my hair looks like birds are nesting in it. Yelling Fuck Me! in the razor aisle. I think you are insane."

We get to the razor display. Fuck me! again!

How am I supposed to know what type of razor I own among this ocean of razor options?  It is a razor. I put a blade on it and use it until my legs scream for mercy whereby I clue in that I am shaving with the equivalent of a butter knife.

As I stand shaking my head in exasperation at the ludicrous display, the man from before walks over.  He makes more small talk. I respond. I make a choice and walk away.

Emily smiles at me.

"See", she says, "he likes you - even though it is totally creepy to see someone crushing on my mother."

0 Baleful Regards:

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